he could remember and…
Lights brightened the street. Melissa’s blue Civic rolled past his 300M.
Quinton felt himself weaken, something inside him quailing before the prospect of an impending thrill. “Bless me, Father.
Bless me.” He swallowed deep and sat perfectly still, watching her pull into the driveway. The garage door opened, then closed
behind her car.
His bride was home.
4
OCTOBER IN DENVER. It could be cold one day and hot the next. Like working a case, Brad thought. The trail could turn at any moment. Usually
due to fairly basic investigative work, collecting mounds of evidence and carefully sifting through them.
Someone once told him that good doctoring was a process of eliminating potential diseases until a physician was left with
the most likely ailment to explain the symptoms. Detective work was the same.
As long as you were eliminating suspects in the investigative process, you were moving forward. It was sometimes Brad’s only
consolation in the face of relentless pressure.
In the case of a serial killer like the Bride Collector, knowing that the suspect would continue turned the work from a simple
elimination process into a chess match. Success wasn’t just a matter of sifting through the evidence from the past, but of
trying to anticipate the future.
Anticipating a killer’s next move meant climbing into his mind. Not out of desire, of course. No one with any skill or a sane
mind would ever relish that journey. It was only ever launched out of necessity.
Brad had settled himself with a late-night drink at McKenzie’s Pub, a block from his downtown condo, then spent the balance
of the night alone, tossing and turning, climbing inside the Bride Collector’s mind.
He’d woken early and headed to the bathroom to shower, eager to return to the crime scene, before seeing that it was only
three in the morning. He slipped back under the covers, pulled his second pillow tight, and thought about madness.
Insanity. The mentally ill.
The Bride Collector.
It was seven now—he’d slept in after missing sleep in the wee hours. Showered, shaved, and dressed in blue slacks and white
shirt, he poured his half-finished cup of coffee down the drain, chased it with a squirt of lemon fresh, and rinsed it away.
Buttoning his shirt, he wandered over to the window and gazed out at the city.
His condo was on the fifth floor of a ten-story building off Colfax, a two-bedroom affair with floor-to-ceiling one-way glass
for walls. Even with the lights on at night, there was no way to see inside, but from where Brad stood at the sink, he could
look past the breakfast bar over an expansive view of downtown Denver.
Against the horizon, a row of Rocky Mountain summits wove in and out of view, knitted between the outlines of a crowded, gleaming
skyline. To the south, he could imagine the summit of Pikes Peak in the distance. Turning right toward the north, he could
also glimpse the massive slopes of Longs Peak, crown of Rocky Mountain National Park and rough northernmost boundary of the
massive mountain chain.
He sighed. Somewhere between the two boundaries and within the urban sprawl before him, the killer was probably waking up
as well.
Tragically, so was his next victim.
I see you but you can’t see me.
Fitting for an investigator. Fitting for a killer. How many hours, days, had the killer hid behind the darkened glass of
his car or van, watching others, potential victims, women who warranted his attention because they fit a certain profile?
Beautiful, weak, trusting, innocent.
Who are you watching now? Whose peaceful world of hope will you soon crush?
He turned the water off and quickly scanned the kitchen. Spotless. As was the entire condo. The living room furniture was
built around chrome frames with clean lines and black velvet coverings. Glass tables, but not the cheap kind available at
any Rooms To Go. Brad’s tastes ran rich. A generous inheritance
Lights brightened the street. Melissa’s blue Civic rolled past his 300M.
Quinton felt himself weaken, something inside him quailing before the prospect of an impending thrill. “Bless me, Father.
Bless me.” He swallowed deep and sat perfectly still, watching her pull into the driveway. The garage door opened, then closed
behind her car.
His bride was home.
4
OCTOBER IN DENVER. It could be cold one day and hot the next. Like working a case, Brad thought. The trail could turn at any moment. Usually
due to fairly basic investigative work, collecting mounds of evidence and carefully sifting through them.
Someone once told him that good doctoring was a process of eliminating potential diseases until a physician was left with
the most likely ailment to explain the symptoms. Detective work was the same.
As long as you were eliminating suspects in the investigative process, you were moving forward. It was sometimes Brad’s only
consolation in the face of relentless pressure.
In the case of a serial killer like the Bride Collector, knowing that the suspect would continue turned the work from a simple
elimination process into a chess match. Success wasn’t just a matter of sifting through the evidence from the past, but of
trying to anticipate the future.
Anticipating a killer’s next move meant climbing into his mind. Not out of desire, of course. No one with any skill or a sane
mind would ever relish that journey. It was only ever launched out of necessity.
Brad had settled himself with a late-night drink at McKenzie’s Pub, a block from his downtown condo, then spent the balance
of the night alone, tossing and turning, climbing inside the Bride Collector’s mind.
He’d woken early and headed to the bathroom to shower, eager to return to the crime scene, before seeing that it was only
three in the morning. He slipped back under the covers, pulled his second pillow tight, and thought about madness.
Insanity. The mentally ill.
The Bride Collector.
It was seven now—he’d slept in after missing sleep in the wee hours. Showered, shaved, and dressed in blue slacks and white
shirt, he poured his half-finished cup of coffee down the drain, chased it with a squirt of lemon fresh, and rinsed it away.
Buttoning his shirt, he wandered over to the window and gazed out at the city.
His condo was on the fifth floor of a ten-story building off Colfax, a two-bedroom affair with floor-to-ceiling one-way glass
for walls. Even with the lights on at night, there was no way to see inside, but from where Brad stood at the sink, he could
look past the breakfast bar over an expansive view of downtown Denver.
Against the horizon, a row of Rocky Mountain summits wove in and out of view, knitted between the outlines of a crowded, gleaming
skyline. To the south, he could imagine the summit of Pikes Peak in the distance. Turning right toward the north, he could
also glimpse the massive slopes of Longs Peak, crown of Rocky Mountain National Park and rough northernmost boundary of the
massive mountain chain.
He sighed. Somewhere between the two boundaries and within the urban sprawl before him, the killer was probably waking up
as well.
Tragically, so was his next victim.
I see you but you can’t see me.
Fitting for an investigator. Fitting for a killer. How many hours, days, had the killer hid behind the darkened glass of
his car or van, watching others, potential victims, women who warranted his attention because they fit a certain profile?
Beautiful, weak, trusting, innocent.
Who are you watching now? Whose peaceful world of hope will you soon crush?
He turned the water off and quickly scanned the kitchen. Spotless. As was the entire condo. The living room furniture was
built around chrome frames with clean lines and black velvet coverings. Glass tables, but not the cheap kind available at
any Rooms To Go. Brad’s tastes ran rich. A generous inheritance
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